


Toy

by iamisaac



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: AU, Incest, M/M, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 10:01:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5581480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamisaac/pseuds/iamisaac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-HP books AU, in which Voldemort won. The Malfoys, however, remain in great disfavour, and Draco’s position as a slave/toy/sex object is punishment for his family’s sins</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toy

Draco cannot remember, not really, the days in which the Manor was his home; when he was the scion of an ancient, well-respected family. Lord Voldemort’s possession of it, particularly since the war was won and Potter defeated, seems as if it has been forever. Draco has always been what he is now – a play thing for the Dark Lord and those he favours. He should be grateful to be alive: Lord Voldemort has reminded him of this, more than once, the death’s-head rictus grin on his face.

“The Malfoys let me down, little toy. You failed. Be grateful to your merciful master for allowing you life. Thank your master, little one.”

Draco learned quickly to show gratitude, the way Lord Voldemort likes it: on his knees, kissing his master’s feet, the bottom edge of his master’s robes. He has learned to follow orders – all orders, any orders. The Dark Lord likes to watch him squirm, loves to see him humiliated, and then have Draco thank him on all fours for his beneficence. Tonight is a party night, and Draco is one of the gifts, as always. When he is brought in, with the other toys, he waits. Each toy is assigned a table, for the guests to use at their will. Draco, on his knees, eyes on the floor, waits.

He is assigned Lord Voldemort’s table tonight. The top table. It is the worst of all, because it is his Lordship’s table. But it is not the worst, also because it is his Lordship’s table. There will be no fights over him tonight. No time when his body is dragged in four directions at once by four pairs of greedy hands, each person sure of their right to molest him first. No one will challenge Lord Voldemort’s right to Draco’s body today.

His Lordship flicks his wand, and Draco is on the table, in full view, still on his knees.

“On your belly,” Voldemort orders, his voice full of amusement. After all this time, the torture and humiliation still attracts him with an almost sexual pleasure which owes nothing to Draco’s nudity, and all to the Dark Lord’s unquestioned power over him.

Draco lies down, awaiting the next order.

“Go to MacNair,” his Lordship says. Then, as Draco pushes himself to all fours (knowing better than to stand), “No. Slithering on your belly, like a little snake. That’s right, my toy.”

Draco knows how foolish he must look, trying to slide across the table without dragging his genitals painfully against the wood. Looking up to check MacNair’s place, then quickly down again. Lord Voldemort does not like his play things to make eye contact. It humanises them. Lord Voldemort wants Draco to know precisely what he is, how very much less than human he is. Draco lowers his head to the table in submission when he reaches MacNair, who grabs a handful of his hair.

“What do you want, my Lord?” MacNair asks.

“Give it a kiss,” Voldemort says lazily. “I have not quite decided what…” He breaks off, and Draco can hear the delight in his voice as he says, “But wait! Yes. Of course! I know precisely what to get it to do. My pet has had no sort of enjoyment for so long! It would only be kind, don’t you think -” 

– Draco can hear the Dark Lord’s voice continue to speak, but his mouth is being plundered by MacNair, and he can’t quite grasp the words. MacNair has a strong grasp of his hair, and his idea of kissing involves teeth and biting and Draco’s blood dripping from his mouth and dribbling down his chin. When MacNair lets him go, he rolls back onto the table, eyes closed. It doesn’t matter, really, what Lord Voldemort has said. Draco has been humiliated in every way: even the Dark Lord’s imagination must have run out by now, he thinks.

The Death Eaters at the table are murmuring to each other in enjoyment. Draco lets the sound rush over him, reminding himself that tonight will not last forever. He will be returned to the pen, tied to a stake, left alone to rest. That is the best his life gets, and he is resigned to it. But Lord Voldemort is calling his ‘pet’ to him, giving instructions in a murmur. Draco, with a jolt of fear, suddenly wonders whether the pet is Fenrir Greyback. Whether his punishment – for, no matter how it is phrased, Draco knows this is punishment: punishment for failing to kill Dumbledore, for lying when the Death Eaters had Potter within their grasp – will be to be torn apart by a predatory werewolf. He waits for the terror to hit him, but he feels nothing. If Greyback is to savage him, perhaps he will go too far. Perhaps Draco will be dead before the night is out. That is a finale to be prayed for, not feared.

“Go on, pet,” he hears Lord Voldemort say. “You have all the equipment; go and take the prize. My Death Eaters tell me that he is a good lay. You will enjoy him.”

A whispered, agonised word. “Please.”

Draco hears it, but doesn’t understand. This is his punishment: no Death Eater previously has shown unwillingness to deliver it.

“Oh dear, pet, have you forgotten how it works?” his Lordship asks, mockingly. “Has it been so long that you fear for your prowess?”

“Don’t – make – me -” The words are cut off with a howl. Lord Voldemort does not appreciate disagreement.

Draco looks up. He cannot help himself. Something in the voice had sounded – had sounded –

He sees his father.

He sees his father, and he realises what Voldemort has done. What he is insisting on. Lucius is barely recognisable from the man he used to be. There is no pride left in him, any more than there is in Draco. Draco watches the way his father’s hands shake, the way he has a collar round his neck as his only attire. The way he cowers, wincing away from his Lordship. The way he still, after all that, dares to beg for mercy. To beg that Voldemort does not make him do it; does not make him sodomise his only son. And Draco knows – surely, his father knows also – how pointless the pleading is. It will only fix the Dark Lord to his purpose even more. Only make it that much more enjoyable as he watches Lucius part Draco’s legs, press his cock inside him.

“But pet,” Lord Voldemort says in mock protest, “I am giving you a treat! Look – isn’t it a tasty morsel for a starving pet?” He pats Lucius’s cock condescendingly. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, since you got a chance to use this?”

“Please, my Lord.”

There are tears in his father’s eyes. Draco looks away. This is worse to witness than the rape will be to experience. Worse because of the sheer pointless hell of it. Worse because Lucius is merely making his Lordship more determined. Worse because his father just can’t stop himself begging, just can’t stop the hopeless need to try anything, everything, to save Draco. Worse because his father will know that once again, he was powerless to protect his son; and that his powerlessness has made Draco’s misery worse.

“You begin to anger me, pet,” the Dark Lord says, his voice colder. “Have you not yet learnt to obey my orders without questioning?”

“Anything,” Lucius says - hopelessly, pointlessly. “Anything but this.” 

His head is bowed. He knows he is defeated. He dips his head a bit lower, and Voldemort murmurs a spell which causes his to cry out again. He is silenced. He crawls towards Draco, but cannot look at him. Draco reaches out a hand to touch his father’s, but Lucius pulls his hand away as if Draco’s touch burns him. Perhaps it does. Draco does not know what awful things the Dark Lord has done to his father. He does not want to know.

“Now, now, pet, you will have to touch the toy, you know,” chides Lord Voldemort.

Draco is aware of how still, how quiet, the room is. Even the other tables have stopped taking their pleasure to watch the cameo play out on his Lordship’s table. So many eyes on him. So many faces, longing to see Lucius Malfoy rape his beloved son. So many people, Draco thinks, who hate them both this much. What have they done to deserve so much loathing? 

Draco pushes himself to his knees, and remembers when he believed that Lucius was the most powerful man in the world. The most wonderful. His Daddy.

“Father,” he whispers, using a finger to wipe away his father’s tears. But they fall faster as he does so.

“Very touching,” mocks Lord Voldemort. “But you have business to attend to, pet. And little one – little toy – you do not touch without permission. Remember your place.”

Draco’s hand drops away. Instead, he turns away from his father, crouching on all fours, offering himself. Making it as easy as possible for… for what? For his father to fuck him. Lucius doesn’t move. Draco wishes he would just get on with it, finish this, get it over as soon as possible. But it seems there is a problem. He hears his father’s voice, filled with shame.

“My Lord, I…” He trails off, but it seems he has made his problem clear.

“Cannot get it up?” Lord Voldemort laughs. “Get the toy to suck it for you. He’s had _so_ much practice.”

Draco winces to hear his father told this. It is true, of course: he has given blow jobs to pretty much every man in this room, often many more times than once. It sounds worse said out loud, to his father. It is clear there is no point him crouching here in this vulnerable position, not at the moment. He sits back on his haunches.

“See?” his Lordship says. “He’s all ready for you. Why don’t you put your cock in the toy’s mouth, pet? See how beautifully your son can take you?”

Lucius is sobbing, as quietly as he can. Draco hasn’t the heart left to cry. He turns to his father, moving forward and taking his father’s flaccid length into his mouth. He sucks on it, with all the tricks and techniques he has learned, and feels his father hardening. He continues to bob his head, trying to forget this is Lucius, trying to forget everything except the need to get this done, to get it over as soon as possible. He can hear the murmurs around the table, the comments about how well Lucius’s son can suck cock; how he must be his father’s wet dream; how he’s taking him like a whore. He can’t grit his teeth, and tries not to tense up. He can feel Lucius’s shame coming off him in waves, and knows there is nothing he can do to make this any better for his father. They do not have a choice. There is never any choice if the Dark Lord tells you to do something. When his father is fully hard, Draco slips off him, and once more turns to present himself for fucking.

“Oh no,” Lord Voldemort corrects, softly. “On your back, little toy. I want you to see your father fucking you. What a dirty little toy you are, aren’t you, sucking Daddy’s cock so wantonly in front of a roomful of people? Such a hot little mouth for your Daddy. I want you to be able to see what a filthy toy you are. I want you to watch as Daddy fucks you.”

Draco had thought he knew despair. He now realises he knew nothing – nothing at all - until this moment. He rolls over onto his back, gazing up at the ceiling and wondering what must happen to make the ceiling collapse. Praying an earthquake takes the house - somehow, anyhow. Anything. What was it his father said? Anything but this.

“Come on, pet,” Voldemort encourages, in that soft, hateful voice. “You’ve felt how well he sucked you; just think how delightful to be inside him.”

Draco shuts his eyes. He feels his father position himself near his entrance. At least it won’t hurt. Draco always prepares himself before parties, hating himself for doing it, but doing it anyway. The first times, when he didn’t know any better, they fucked him dry – at least, dry until his blood slicked the way – and it made him scream. He never wants to scream for the Dark Lord again. Never. Especially not now. Especially not this way.

“Open your eyes, little toy,” Voldemort says. “Daddy can’t start till you’re watching him.”

Draco opens his eyes, and feels a tear slide out of one, down the side of his face. He’d thought he had forgotten how to cry. He doesn’t look at Lucius; and clearly the Dark Lord can tell, because a spell whispers across the table, forcing him to meet his father’s eyes, making it impossible for him to look away. The same spell has been worked on Lucius, it seems: they must fuck front-to-front, staring into each other’s eyes, knowing every second how disgusting and shameful and wrong it is – how disgusting and shameful and wrong _they_ are, even to be doing this.

Lucius puts the head of his cock against Draco’s arsehole, fumbling a little since he cannot look at what he’s doing; can do nothing but look into his son’s face. Draco pushes his hips forward, taking his father in, and feeling the moment of the breach.

“I’m sorry.” Lucius dares not say the words aloud, but his lips form the shape. He pushes further into Draco, waiting for Draco’s body to relax and take him. He is a considerate lover, Draco thinks, and hates himself even more. No child should think that of their father. Oh gods. No child. Lucius begins to thrust, and Draco relaxes. It will soon be over, soon be over.

“Pet!” 

Draco bites back a sob as he hears Lord Voldemort speak again. Surely they have done enough? Surely he can just let them finish, get away, stop staring at each other?

“My Lord?” Lucius says.

“You are forgetting your manners,” his Lordship says. “So selfish, pet. Thinking only of your own pleasure, and not of the toy’s. Touch him. He got you so hard, after all. Put your hand on his cock. Make him come.”

Another tear slides down Draco’s face, and he is ashamed because his father will see – his father cannot help but see – and it will make it all so much worse. Rarely is Draco allowed to come too. The point is always the pleasure of the Death Eaters, not his own. But then, the enjoyment of the Death Eaters will be increased by this further violation. They want to see it. They want to see Draco’s father get him off. Lucius’s mouth works as he tries not to sob, and his hand goes down to Draco’s cock. Draco wants to hate it. He wants so much to hate it. But there is a warm hand curled around his length, and he has not come for _so long_ : one of the spells that bind him prevents him touching himself, supposedly to keep him ‘pure’ for the Death Eaters. Lucius is stroking him, and it feels good and that is worse than anything else.

It doesn’t take long. That, at least, Draco can be grateful for, even if he can hear what the Death Eaters are saying about his easy orgasm at his father’s hands. As soon as he has come, Lucius pumps his hips, and slides in and out of Draco, and suddenly, finally, it is over. They are both semen stained and humiliated, but it is over. It is done. Lucius returns to his place, under the table at Lord Voldemort’s feet. Draco tries not to wonder how many times his father has been there without his knowledge, hearing Draco’s capitulation to the demands of one Death Eater after another. He stumbles back to his pen, submits to being lashed to it once more, and for the first time in many months, he cries.


End file.
